A Thousand Scattered Pages
by JayRain
Summary: Someday he'll put the pieces together in a way that makes sense. For now, the memories are scrawled on scattered pages in a dozen different journals: out of sequence, out of time, out of body, out of mind. Just who is Bucky? He hopes writing down the fragmented memories, as he recalls them, will lead him to an answer. It isn't always pretty, but it has to be done.
1. Prologue

_Author's Note_ : When asked what was in Bucky's backpack in the trailers, Sebastian Stan had this to say: "a dozen notebooks that compose the scattered memories dating back to as far as he can remember which somewhat piece together a scattered life. In a similar way to Alzheimer's, he's written things down, for fear of losing his memory again...He was prepared, were something to happen, to walk away with nothing but that backpack, which is why it's the only thing he takes and knowing full well that not everything those pages contain is pretty."

Here are the scattered pages of Bucky's memory. Some spoilers possible, and will be marked. Italicized sections denote non-journal narrative.

* * *

 _A Thousand Scattered Pages_

 _Prologue_

 _His lungs burn as his ribs constrict around them. He pushes toward the surface and the light and gasps as he breaks through into the sunlit afternoon. Dirty water streams off of him as he slogs across the mucky bottom, dragging the other man with his metal arm. He feels no weakness in that side. The rest of him aches and he's not sure what to do about it; he's gone so long ignoring pain, or not feeling it at all. So he falls back on instinct and training and hauls the other body up onto the banks of the Potomac._

 _Across the river smoke billows to the sky and sirens wail. The Winter Soldier glances between the destruction and the man. His mission. "I'm with you til the end of the line," he said, and in that fraction of a moment his training faltered. The man: Steve. At least, he thinks. He knew him. He called him Bucky. He called up memories of brick buildings and hot summer days, smiles and laughter and war and fighting and falling and…_

 _Steve coughs and water trickles out of his mouth. His face is already swollen and bruising. The Winter Soldier… Bucky? Whoever he is, he can't stay here. But he won't go back there. Not to them. Not when Bucky is inside of him, whoever he is. He doesn't know how to be two people at once. He only knows how to be a soldier._

 _He strikes off, silent and keeping to the shadows and copses along the riverbank. The first rule of any mission is always "No witnesses."_

 _He waits for dusk and thinks about the man on the shore. His mission. A first failure. Why did he pull him from the river? Because it was the right thing to do. His head hurts, like there is too much for his mind to contain. There has never been right or wrong. Only orders. Compliance. Killing. No questions, no witnesses._

 _His skull throbs with his pulse. Why. Why. Why. He shakes his head and flexes his biological fingers. Pierce wanted confirmation of death in ten hours. It's been longer than that. He's failed. He's never failed before. What does failure mean? Why? Why? Why?_

 _He slams his metal fist into the ground, punching a hole nearly up to his elbow. He beats the ground over and over again and when that's not enough he uproots saplings and snaps them and they splinter into ribbons of wood that squeeze through his metallic fingers and he can't feel the splinters and all he hears is the echoing crack of wood and it's cold._

 _Deep breaths. Keep moving. If you stop, you're dead; if anyone sees you, they're dead. He's not sure he wants that to happen._

 _He sees the map of the city in his mind and traverses alleys and shadows. He ignores the feeling of fatigue and powers through the fuzziness in his head and his vision. He doesn't remember ever being out of cryo so long before. They wiped his mind and kept him going. He's at his limit and he wants to scream but he's silent._

 _He doesn't remember getting to the building. The shell of his mind is cracking, pieces of programming falling away. There are no orders to keep them together. He failed his mission._

 _He finds things: civilian clothing, gloves, backpack, weapons. For the first time his hand falters when he reaches for a sidearm. He cracks his knuckles. Squeezes his eyes shut, punches the wall. Punches the filing cabinets. Rampages through the room, destroying everything. He stops and catches his breath. Papers flutter to the floor. Flashes of images, hints of sounds filter through his brain. He can't grab onto anything._

 _The Winter Soldier finds a simple hat and puts it on, pulling the brim low. He dons a dark canvas jacket and pulls on gloves, effectively hiding his silver hand. His mouth is dry. He's getting dizzy. Everything swirls in his head. Once more his hand hovers over a weapon, and he sweeps it off a table with a savage cry. He won't do that anymore. That's not him._

 _But who is he?_

 _He kneels down and sifts through the wreckage on the floor. Grabs a sheaf of papers; he doesn't have orders anymore, so he'll have to make his own. Finds a drawer with passcodes and cards and ways to access HYDRA's funds. He'll use everything they've taught him against them, if it's the last thing he does._

 _As he heads out of the building he passes a desk with a leather-bound notebook open on the desktop calendar. He grabs is, ripping out the first, used half of the book. Grabs a pen. He can't keep things straight in his mind—they keep flitting away like finches, too fast and fragile to be held. He leans against a wall, book in hand. Takes a deep breath._

He called me Bucky.

Who the hell is Bucky?


	2. Memorial

_Chapter 1:_ Memorial

I'm a ghost. No one knows I existed then and they don't know I exist now.

No weapon, but that's wrong. I am a weapon. I don't want to be that anymore. I don't know what to be, though.

Start with who I was. If that's even me.

The face is mine. The story: familiar?

Snow. Rush of wind, roar of an engine. Icy air slicing my face. I've felt this before. Stomach drops out and there's screaming. White blur, gray sky, reaching out to catch myself. Ripping, tearing, fire. Thud. Stars, darkness, biting ice, burning pain.

James Buchanan Barnes, the only Howling Commando to give his life. Howling Commandos: daring sons of bitches who took down HYDRA forces all across Europe, doing what no other regiment or team could. I think I knew their names, once. They were honored in Europe and America for their service. They're probably all dead now; if any still lived, they'd be nearly a hundred years old.

That means I am, too. How can I be that old and still look the same? Maybe that isn't me. Maybe James Buchanan Barnes is as much a ghost as I am. Maybe the man on the bridge was mistaken; he thought I was someone else. So why did his words cut through me?

Best friends since childhood, Steve Rogers and James Buchanan, "Bucky", Barnes.

Grew up in Brooklyn.

107th.

Presumed KIA in Azzano, rescued by Steve Rogers only to fall to his death.

There it is again, my insides twisting into coils. The buzzing in my head, the roar of the crowd, or is it the roar of the wind as I'm falling again and again. If I close my eyes I see the snow and the eternally gray sky and I realize I haven't ever been warm since that day.

First rule: no witnesses. I'm surrounded by hundreds of witnesses and I think I'm warm. I can't stop staring at the face that is my face but isn't my face. I blink and he's still there. People pause, skim, keep walking. I'm standing here staring. I'm obvious. They see me and they know me. One exit through to a special exhibit gift shop. Stay calm.

Just move. Get out of here.

Next stop, Brooklyn.


	3. Big Apple

_Chapter 2: Big Apple_

The good thing about New York is lots of seedy little motels that don't care who you are or how long you stay so long as you pay cash. I've been here before in this life and in the life before that. The streets are the same, but there are more of them. The buildings are still there, but there are more of them and they're bigger. I came to New York many times when _they_ told me to, but I feel like I'm seeing it this way for the first time.

No one's followed me from DC. No one questioned me when I bought a train ticket to NYC. I haven't slept. I don't know how. Part of me wishes for the cold again, seeping deep into my body and pushing me into the spaces between time. Humans sleep and I don't think I'm quite that. I stared out the windows the entire time and tried to remember the last train ride. The one that killed Bucky. But I couldn't so I tried to remember his face and couldn't so I just stared through my own reflection as New Jersey flew by.

It's night and it isn't dark because this is the city that doesn't sleep. Like me. I think I need to though because I'm seeing things. Every person who walks by is a Hydra agent. Every person who glances at me knows who I am. Every siren makes me want to run. But I paid cash and no one cares who I am or how long I stay so long as I pay.

Lock the door, check the premises for cameras and bugs because I may have left Hydra but Hydra hasn't left me. It's easy enough to pull the furniture in front of the door; weight is nothing. Somehow I'm strong, stronger than anyone other than the man on the bridge. The news says he's Steve. Steve is interviewed and he says nothing about where the Winter Soldier might be. He tells them he managed to swim to shore before passing out. Steve is lying. I can tell by the way his eyes flick to the left. He's not comfortable lying but no one will think he is because Captain America wouldn't lie, would he? I know he's lying because Steve was always a terrible liar.

Clench my fist. Snap the pen, dig in the drawer for a new one. Ink everywhere. How do I know Steve can't lie?

* * *

I think I slept. I think I dreamed. It doesn't feel right to close my eyes and not be freezing. The light is different. It's been longer than ten hours. I failed. The news says Pierce is dead, so I guess it doesn't matter. The woman with red hair walks out of the Capitol. Bulbs flash and reporters shout and she tosses her hair and vanishes into a crowd. She stands out when she needs to, disappears when she wants to. Hydra's secrets are laid bare before the world.

…Does that mean me too?

Rooftop on the corner: good vantage point. I could see everything from there. There was a direct line of sight into the building across the street. They sent in operatives to kill the power so no one came in and I could complete the mission. Level 5 target, confirmation of death in less than twenty-four hours—

NO NO NO NO NO NO

Not here to remember that. Forget the spiderweb cracks in the glass and the ghostly glide down the fire escape into a waiting van, waiting to bring me back to the cold. NO.

* * *

It smells like wet earth. These pages are warping and the ink is smudging. Fitting that even when trying to write down what I remember, it's unclear. I couldn't remember what street I lived on. I wandered for a couple hours. No one noticed me anymore than they noticed anyone else. I got something to eat because I guess I'm hungry, but it tasted strange and dry. I've spent lifetimes hiding; now I have to hide in plain sight. I have to learn to live again.

How do you create a life when you have two different people living inside of you? I'm not their soldier anymore. I won't be ever again. But I'm not Sergeant James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes of the 107th. They weren't mistaken when they said he died in 1944.

His parents are buried in this sprawling cemetery. His siblings are either dead or too old to remember their big brother, and they wouldn't recognize him anyway. I find their stones: John and Clara Barnes, died 1962 and 1965 respectively. I try to grieve for them. I search inside for something: an image, a memory of smiles or proud handshakes.

It's blank. I can't even remember Bucky's face from the memorial in Washington and that was yesterday.

The stone next to theirs is toppled over. The spray paint is fresh: TRAITOR, and a garish red octopus. The engraved name: James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes, 107th: beloved son and friend. 1917-1944. This is me. This is how they tried to remember me, and the red-haired woman spilled Hydra's secrets to the whole world and that means me and I'm Bucky and I'm not I'm the Winter Soldier but I'm not I'm a traitor but I'm not and I'm not-


	4. Nyet

_Author's Note: Graphic depictions of violent torture. To make him their weapon, first they had to break him. Also, the idea for this chapter came from a work of art by MaXKennedy on deviantArt: maxkennedy .deviantart art/ Captain-America-The-Winter-Soldier-Chained-477774560 (without the spaces, of course, since fanfic doesn't like links.) And my thanks to ScarletDeva, who has agreed to assist me with the phonetic Russian (this chapter it wasn't much, but getting that right was important!)  
_

* * *

 _Chapter 3: Nyet_

His arms are chained above his head. Metal screeches on metal as the shackle scrapes against his metal arm; his real arm, the flesh and bone one, burns and aches and his wrist stings as the metal chafes. He's cold and hungry and tired and can't see very well. He tries to shake his damp hair out of his face. Ice crystals melt into his eyes and mingle with cold sweat. He's shivering. The chains rattle against the concrete wall behind him.

"Good morning, Soldier." He looks up at the man before him. He's smiling; he's pleasant. He holds a black baton in one hand. "What is your name?"

His throat is dry and scratchy and his thoughts sluggish as his pulse. But he remembers. "Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. 107th—"

" _Nyet._ " The man whacks him in the ribs with the stick, forcing the air out of his lungs. He gasps and struggles to get his footing as the chains pull at him. "Your name is Soldier." He waits for him to catch his breath. "Now. What is your name?"

"James. Buchanan—"

" _Nyet."_ Another stinging rap across the ribs. Another strangled gasp for breath that won't come. "Your name. Is. Soldier. What is your name?"

"Bucky. My fucking name is Bucky!" he screams, spitting in the man's face and pulling against the chains. He's strong, stronger than he's ever been. He hears the creak of straining metal. It's not enough.

" _Nyet, Soldat,"_ the man says. He jams the baton into Bucky's sternum and a violent shock shoots throughout his body, rattling his teeth and making his metal fingers smoke. "Your name is Soldier. Say it."

He has the courtesy to wait for Bucky to catch his breath. Bucky coughs and it tears at his throat. "My name… is… Bucky." He tries to brace himself, but the strikes come one after another across his ribs and torso. The man lands a heavy smack across his cheek. He's pretty sure he can feel the bones fracture.

 _"Nyet._ Your name is Soldier. Say it with me," he says, grabbing Bucky's hair with one hand and sticking the end of the baton against his neck.

"Fuck you. I'm Bucky."

The electric jolt sends waves of white and red and gray across his vision and shrieks in his ears. He tastes blood, metallic and salty. He twists and pulls at the chains and his feet slip on the cold concrete floor. He screams and keeps screaming even when the jolt ends.

When he opens his eyes the man is straddling a chair, resting his arms over the back and staring at Bucky. "Good morning, Soldier," he says with a pleasant smile. The baton rests across his lap. "What is your name?"

 _Just say it. Say Soldier, just make him stop_. His lungs ache. He feels like he's being strangled. He can't quite get his legs under him; his bones are made of aspic and there's blood trickling down his face and his arm. "Sergeant… Sergeant James… Buchanan… Barnes. 107th… Bucky," he mutters around a swollen, bleeding tongue.

The chair creaks as the man gets up. " _Nyet._ Your name is Soldier." His smile isn't pleasant. His teeth are bright white under the harsh glare of the overhead light. The baton whistles through the air. Pain blossoms through Bucky's… who's Bucky? Through his torso. The baton sparks and sends electricity through his organs. His heart skips beats and shudders and the blood pools in his legs and he can't hold himself up. His arm pulls from the socket. He vomits up blood all over his bare torso.

"Your name is Soldier," he says over and over, each time punctuating it with a buzzing smack of the stick.

"My name… my name is…" he tries to say and each time he's hit harder and screams louder.

"Your name is soldier," the man says and jams the electronic baton up against where his jaw meets his neck.

"Soldier! My name is soldier!" he screams, over and over and over again through the waves of buzzing and flashing pain as he convulses in the chains.

The buzzing stops. The man steps back and tilts the soldier's chin up and meets his eyes. The soldier trembles all over. His breaths are wheezing gasps into his ruined lungs. "Good work, Soldier," he says with a smile and drops his chin. He pats the soldier's cheek, almost friendly. Then he slaps the baton against his palm. "Now. In Russian."

The soldier tries to pick his head up off his chest. "I… I don't know Russian," he says, barely above a choked whisper.

Another zap to the neck; another whack to the ribs. Another scream torn from his wrecked throat. _No, no, no, nyet,_ _no,_ he begs. _Nyet, nyet, nyet…_


	5. Car Crash

_Chapter 4: Car Crash_

The sirens weren't for me. Not this time. I spend days wandering Brooklyn trying to remember. I also try to forget. Can the good memories overwrite the bad ones? Bucky the war hero and Bucky the Soldier are the same person. They're both in my head and can't be separated. I watch the news. Then I turn it off. Then I turn it back on. Thousands of Hydra files are in the process of being decrypted; the government is trying to take them off the internet but people with rabid curiosity are beating them to it.

They want to see the wreckage Hydra has strewn across history. They want to watch it like a car crash with broken glass and blood and shattered lights and crumpled metal. They can't look away.

I was driving that car. I crashed through history, moving faster and shattering lives and barreling through time.

Steve and I watched two cars crash into each other, head-on. Everything about it was _too_ : it was winter but the sun was out, _too_ bright in a _too_ -blue sky. The car skidded on ice and it was going _too_ fast anyway. There was _so_ : _so_ much glass on the street, _so_ much screaming in the air, _so_ many people who stopped and couldn't look away.

Steve barreled headlong into the middle of it while someone ran into a store to phone the police. Steve pulled off his coat and put it over the sobbing child in the back seat while the kid's parents slowly died in the front. I tried to make people stop looking. Tried to wave cars away, tried to make Steve understand that he can't save everyone but he had a soft spot for orphans. Couldn't really blame him.

My head hurts. Drink some water. Try eating something. Try to sleep. Try not to hear the sirens headed toward pain and death and destruction. Side note, the manager has started asking questions, even with cash. If I don't move soon the sirens will be for me.


	6. 1963

_Author's Note:_ I headcanon that, as the first Winter Soldier, there was a lot that was experimental, and therefore there were always cracks in the programming and he had moments, especially early on, where he was erratic and unstable in the aftermath of a mission. The more time went by, the more they improved upon all of it, but there were those rare occasions, such as we see in TWS, where the fractures become visible.

* * *

 _Chapter 5: 1963_

The Asset will complete the mission and the man will take responsibility. Hail Hydra.

The Asset will take another life for the greater good. His work is a gift to humanity. Hail Hydra.

It will be a kill for the history books: people will remember where they were on this day, what they were doing when they heard. The man is eager to take the credit. Hail Hydra.

Credit will truly be due to the Asset, but no one can ever know he exists. Even his handlers are disposed of after certain high profile missions. Cut one head off, two more will grow in its place; but the Fist of Hydra is irreplaceable. It is an asset.

The man understands this. He is uncomfortable standing next to the Asset. He should be. Few ever get this close. Most that do wind up dead. The man nods one last time and grabs his own weapon before heading out to take the Asset's credit.

Level 5 target in a moving vehicle. In another life the Asset was a sniper, sharp eyes seeing what no one else did. His handlers stand guard at the door, wary of intruders. Assassination and extraction within twelve hours. No witnesses. Hail Hydra.

This of course means that the other man will not make it far before someone higher up in Hydra command neutralizes him. And then that operative. And so on and so forth; cut off one head, there will always be more.

"You are the Fist of Hydra," he has been told. "You will hold this country by the throat, strangling the life out of it until it has no choice but to bow before us." Then the words. Then the mission. Your name is Soldier. _Soldat._ "Let this country feel your grip."

He watches the roadway, one finger poised over the trigger and ready to squeeze at any moment. Cheering crowds below clamor for a sight of the president, the thorn in Hydra's side. But not for much longer. Word comes that the other man is at his assigned location. His orders are to follow the Asset's lead. He is human; there's margin for error, which is why it is the Asset who must accomplish this task. Even if the other man fails the Asset will not.

The Asset never fails. The Fist of Hydra always strikes, hard and sure, and it never misses.

The motorcade route has been imprinted into his mind and he trains his eyes down the street. Patience. They're nine hours into their twelve-hour timeline. The Asset always finishes on time.

The cheers on the streets below grow into a roar. He stares through the scope of his rifle. The world around him disappears and it is just the Asset and the crosshairs and the tree-lined street and history in the making. The car is in sight: convertible, so everyone can see their beloved leader. Convertible, making the Asset's job even easier.

The president smiles into the crosshairs and waves.

The Asset squeezes the trigger.

When the other man's decoy shots fire from a grassy knoll across the plaza and just out of sight, the Asset is already being shuttled out the door, down the stairs, and into a waiting vehicle in the alley. Hydra operatives pack up the gun with businesslike efficiency and head down to a different vehicle.

There will be a rendezvous. There will be debriefing. There will be the chair and the flashes of memory and the pain in his head and then the cold and as he sits in the back seat, hurtling toward cold and dreams he looks at his hand and hears the screaming and remembers the gunshot and _he killed a president_ and he grabs a handler around the neck and his screams are strangled and the windpipe crumples in his grasp and then the bones snap and he can't feel bad because the man knew this could happen and if you cut one head off two more will just grow in its place…

He's not an Asset when he does this. He's a Liability and it makes them drive faster and risk detection and take corners too fast, but every emergency vehicle in this city is screaming and rushing toward the president. They have two hours until extraction. They need confirmation of death or else they'll send him back out but they can't, not like this.

Hail Hydra, they say as they haul him out and usher him into the basement of an unopened nightclub. Hail Hydra, they say as they shove him in the chair and fasten the restraints. Hail Hydra, they cry as news of the president's death in the emergency room comes over the radios. Someone turns it up because they can't hear it over the sound of the Asset screaming as his thoughts are scrambled and shredded.

Hail Hydra, they whisper as they haul his limp body out of the chair and pack him into a cryo pod. The cold takes his breath away and darkens his mind and his thoughts drift like snowflakes.

The Fist of Hydra unclenches its fingers.

Only when extraction is completed can the many heads of Hydra breathe collective sighs of relief.


	7. It Wasn't Always Bad

_Chapter 5: It wasn't always bad_

The signs said Coney Island but this isn't Coney Island. Just like I'm Bucky but I'm not Bucky. A lifetime has passed for both of us; if people change, places change too. I can't expect things to be the same, but even though I know it, logically, it's still hard. There are more buildings: taller, with clean concrete edges. Modern, new. The old bits that remain are quaint reminders of a time gone by, a time to recall in passing, but not worth reliving. The future is here. The future is now. The future is fucking scary.

But there was a time when the future wasn't scary. When things were simple. Kill Nazis, free Europe, come home and start a family and live your life. Watch your kids grow, gather with your old war buddies for beers and remember the good times.

A week ago I was sure there were no good times. I was the Winter Soldier and Bucky was some sick joke. I wasn't just asking Steve "Who the hell is Bucky?" for the hell of it. I really don't know. But here. The air is cool by the ocean. The waves are loud. The smell of salt and fried food and the sound of laughter can almost soften the modern edges. And… yeah, it wasn't always bad.

No one would ride the Cyclone with me. Robert was too young; Dotty and Mary were too scared. Steve didn't want to either, but he wouldn't let me ride alone, either. He always said afterward that I made him ride the Cyclone until he threw up. He did throw up. He got out of the car, those skinny legs wobbling and his hair sticking to his face with sweat. He looked green and when I asked if he was okay he nodded before running for the bushes and heaving up his guts.

"Gosh Steve, I'm so sorry!"

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's okay, Buck. I'll be fine. I always am."

I punched his shoulder. "Yeah, after I save your backside."

He punched me back, or would have if I hadn't stepped out of the way. His arm was like a limp noodle and he overshot and stumbled and I smiled because this was so typically Steve. Everything was a fight. He tried too hard to be too much to be more than met the eye. I lost count of the alleys I found him in, bruised or bleeding, pockets turned out and hair askew. He'd follow me home. Mama would pull out a steak for him to put on his eye. After a few times of this I realized she kept one in the icebox just for those moments when I brought Steve home after a fight.

"So I guess you want to ride again?" Steve asked, looking up at the rattling wooden roller coaster. Then he looked at me.

I really did, actually. "No," I told him. "That's okay. I'll go another time."

Steve shoved me back toward the line. "You want to go again. Let's go again."

"What about your mom?"

Steve was quiet for a moment. "She told me to have fun tonight." Then he smiled. "Come on. I think I still have something in my stomach. We need to fix that."

We rode the Cyclone three more times. By the third round, Steve was just dry heaving, but he insisted and I all but had to carry him into the line for our last ride. His legs were shaking and he kept pausing to heave in the bushes all the way home. I had some money left; I said we could take a taxi. "I'll be fine, Buck," Steve said.

"If I wasn't holding you up you'd never make it home."

"Yeah, right," Steve said. So I slipped his arm off my shoulder and kept walking and listening for the sound of Steve's shoes behind me. He always had to try to keep up, with me, with everyone else. I was just the only one who was willing to wait for him. And now was no different. When I turned around he was leaning on a lamp post, forehead pressed against it and his eyes closed.

"I'm amazed you still have anything in there to make you feel like throwing up," I joked, walking back. Steve tried to smile. He always tried to smile, even when he didn't want to. When I saw Steve in Washington, he didn't smile. When I read about him in the papers, he doesn't smile. He never smiles on the news. He can keep up now—he's the one leaving people behind, but he's not happy. But back then, if he wasn't smiling, something was wrong. And I was the only one, beside his mother, who saw him not-smiling.

"It's just my mother."

"Another bout?" Sarah Rogers had been sick with TB as long as I'd known Steve. Apparently she'd caught it while working as a nurse in the War, and never shook it.

"Yeah." He looked up. "Really, Buck, I'll be fine."

I clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a squeeze. "I'm here if you need me," I told him. Like I always did. And he nodded his thanks and cleared his throat and recovered his composure like he always did.

I was there for Steve, until I wasn't. In fact, the last time I saw him I was the one beating him within inches of his life. The irony's not lost on me. I wonder if he could forgive me for that. If I can even forgive myself. If I even deserve forgiveness. What if that was the end of the line?

The Cyclone rattles by behind me. The woman on the opposite end of the park bench is smoking and I remember Sarah Rogers smoking and coughing and the way Steve would rush to drape her sweater over her shoulders, and how she was so kind even though she was so broken.

I watch the smoke curl into the air and blow away on the spring breeze. She flicks the cigarette and ash falls to the ground.

She sees me watching her. She stands up and hurries away, lost in the Coney Island crowds, leaving behind the lingering cloud of smoke and memories. I should move. Keep moving. No witnesses.

I think I'd like to sit awhile longer and listen to the roller coaster rattle by.


	8. Red

_Chapter 6: Red_

"Good morning, Soldier."

"Ready to comply."

They brief him on mission details as the jet soars into Ukranian airspace. The jet glides to a stop on a runway where a motorbike and an arsenal of weapons are waiting. He gears up: sniper rifle, sidearm, assortment of knives. The window is narrow, but the Winter Soldier is precise and efficient, more machine than human at this point. The others work as a team; he has always worked alone.

It's not the target that worries the superiors. Level 4, a nuclear scientist with potential to become Level 5. It is the Winter Soldier's job to ensure that doesn't happen. His work could undo the gains their organization has made in the last decade. His escort is Level 6: KGB, Red Room trained. She's a target as well, but she can wait. Hydra strikes when necessary, not always when convenient.

That doesn't mean she's off-limits.

He rides north along the roads outside of Odessa, wind in his face and tangling his hair. The hills begin to rise up along his left; the right side of the road falls off in a sheer drop. He revs the engine and goes off-road, up an embankment where he ditches the bike and finds a hidden overlook.

The Winter Soldier rests on his stomach on a flat rock. Branches dip down over him. Grasses grow up and wave gently before his scope. It's annoying but he still has a full view of the road to the east. The sun sets. The sky is golden. He's barely breathing.

" _Soldat._ Target is en route. Are you in position?"

Stupid question. Of course he is. He hears the sound of an engine and trains the scope on the road. The car comes into view. He's seen this model before. Bulletproof body and glass. Plans have to change.

The barrel of the rifle follows the car as it approaches his position. He angles the barrel down slightly. The engine whirs through the quiet twilight. He squeezes the trigger.

The rear tire blows out and the car swerves, breaks and rubber squealing and leaving black marks on the pavement. He shoots again and hits the front tire and the car crashes through the guardrail and rolls down the embankment; a cloud of dust floats into the air like fog as the Winter Soldier lopes down the slope and hops the rail. He watches and listens: the hiss of the steaming radiator; the tinkle of broken glass; the crunch of metal and the clatter of gravel.

The slope is steep but he slides down, slowing his descent by digging his metal arm into the dirt. At the bottom he punches through the rear door's window and pulls the door from the hinges. He casts it aside and reaches in. Empty.

He looks up and sees _her_ supporting the target, his arm over _her_ shoulders as she struggles to get him away from the wreck site. She's stronger than she looks, but the man is bigger than she, and he's injured. She mutters in Russian, caught between swearing and trying to encourage the target to keep going, just one more step, just another, hurry, hurry…

The soldier easily hops over the car and strides over to his target. He grabs _her_ by the arm and flips her over his shoulder with his metal arm, while his other hand flips a knife out of his thigh holster. He forgets about _her_ instantly as he goes for the target.

 _She_ slams into him from behind, her arms locked around his neck in a chokehold while her legs wrap around his torso and he can't shake her off. He drops the knife and instinctively pulls at her arms. She only holds tighter. He slams his head back into her forehead and she grunts. He backs up and shoves her into the roof of the crashed car several times until her grip loosens and she falls off of him.

His first instinct is to take her out; but the target is crawling away, hauling his broken body through the grass, away from the road. The soldier grabs his knife off the ground, hardly breaking stride. He's a machine: well-oiled, efficient, effective. He grabs the man by the hair and jerks him to his feet. He pulls the knife back.

 _She_ is there, moving ghostly and quick in spite of her own injuries. She kicks him in the ribs; keeps to his right side, feinting and getting in jabs. She sweeps her leg under him and he falls but flips himself back upright in a moment. They trade swipe for swipe, step for step, trained equally in this dance of violence, and she is actually smiling as the golden setting sun glints on her red hair.

 _She_ keeps herself between the soldier and the target. _She_ keeps her back to the sun so it glints in his eyes and shines on her red hair. They know the steps and are evenly matched. Their music is the wind, the moans of the target, the gravel that still clatters down the embankment.

And then the sirens.

 _She_ smiles, the golden sunset turning her red hair to flame as she continues the dance, agile as a ballerina and as lethal as a viper. He knows how to dance. He whirls around, lashing out with his metal arm. She ducks and he immediately kicks, connecting with her shoulder. The graceful dancer sprawls in the dirt. She is of no consequence; the timetable has been forced forward.

 _"U menya est' rebyonok,"_ the target sobs as the Soldier approaches, aiming his rifle. " _U menya est' rebyonok."_ I have a child.

And the Soldier has no empathy.

He lifts his gun.

 _She_ hurls herself in front of the target, staring up at him with warning in her pale blue eyes. Her red hair is disheveled and her face is dirty, scraped and bleeding. I could do this all day, she seems to say.

But everyone he's ever known can do this all day. At the end of the day, only one can come through, and it's always the Winter Soldier.

He squeezes the trigger.

Her eyes widen and she gasps, deceptively delicate hands flying to her abdomen in a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding. She glances behind her, tangled red hair flying over her shoulder to see the target behind her, bleeding into the dirt and grass and twitching in his death throes. When she looks back, the Winter Soldier is gone and the sirens and flashing lights are at the top of the embankment.


	9. Family

_Chapter 7: Family_

I liked plums. There was a family member: aunt, cousin, someone my parents knew, they had a plum tree and one summer was hot and they had a good harvest. Mum made jam because nothing went to waste. I had it on toast sometimes. But the fresh plums. I liked those. They were sweet and juicy and tasted like summer and being young, before the war. When times were hard, but we could still find happiness in little things. I don't remember the last time I ate one.

Mum used to do this thing with eggs where she would poach them in cream, when we had it. Robert and I tried to eat slowly and savor it. But in the end we were slurping off our plates and Pop was trying not to laugh and Mum was being stern and Mary and Dotty were giggling and managing to eat slowly.

There were nights when Steve would come over. Once a week at first, then more frequently. Portions were smaller, but it didn't matter. We were together. Mum made the eggs and Steve was slurping his plate, too. He didn't like the plum jam as much but was too polite to say anything.

He tried to insist on paying us back with the little money he made collecting the leftover newspapers. He tried to support his mother the best he could even as she coughed her life out. The sicker she got the more time he spent at our place. We took art classes together and the teacher lied about tuition because Steve wouldn't accept a hand-out. He was too stubborn and too proud. That was true for most of us at that time, but even more for Steve.

Come stay with us, I told him after his mother's funeral. You can shine my shoes, I told him, not because I wanted him to, but because I knew he wouldn't live with us for free. I can make it on my own, he told me. You don't have to, I told him.

"I'm with you until the end of the line," I told him. And I meant it. That's what family means, doesn't it?

It was plums and cream-poached eggs, vegetables boiled to sadness and laughing about burned toast and eating it anyway because it was the Depression. It was listening to the radio and trying not to cry that December morning that changed everything, but still looking at one another and knowing our world wasn't the same. It was art classes and boxing and Coney Island and Pop telling me he was proud of me when he saw me in my uniform, and trying to protect Steve when he kept trying to enlist. It was the subtle switch when my parents started calling me Bucky rather than James, because that's what Steve called me, and Steve was always around in the end.

It was everything that disappeared in 1944.

It was…

I can feel. I never thought I'd feel again.

God damn. I miss them. All of them.


	10. Voice of Reason

_Chapter 8: Voice of Reason  
_

 _You could kill him._

The voice bubbles up through the cracks like magma, hot and hissing.

The resentment is there, just beneath his skin, seething in his pores and singing through his nerves.

They play with forces they cannot control, and then seem so confused when everything backfires. The Soldier catches his breath as he forces himself onto one knee. He hurts: his back, his arm, his legs, his ribs, his very internal organs. He stares up at the scientists and guards. At the other five. At the Colonel.

Silence. Just the buzzing of lights, the hiss of breath.

The electronic, metallic creaking of his bionic arm as his fingers curl into a fist.

 _You could kill him, right now._

There's no loyalty in him, there never has been. Loyalty requires inspiration. It requires feelings of pride and the belief in something or someone. It requires feeling, and they have stripped him of that repeatedly until all that is left is a shell with a gun.

After this there will be the cold and the sleep, and they will haul him out only when they need him.

He is nothing more than just another weapon.

No, he's not loyal.

Neither are the others.

In the one moment of quiet hesitation the others strike. The Soldier may be an efficient and effective killing machine, and his body may be enhanced, but most of it is still human and he can't quite make himself get up and besides, Josef, Dimitri, Ivan and Maria are doing a bang up job of taking out the guards and scientists who have foolishly entered the training cell with all of them.

 _Kill him. Now._

His eyes flick up to the Colonel, who stares in shock at his perfect team's complete rebellion. The Soldier can calculate the odds and they're not in the Colonel's favor. If Josef alone could overpower him, what can all five do to Karpov?

It wasn't supposed to go this way.

He ignores the pain. Machines can't feel pain. They only calculate. They feel no loyalty. They only operate. He fixes his eyes on Karpov. Take advantage of the chaos. Take him down.

Josef turns his piercing eyes on the two of them and smiles, a deranged bloodthirsty grin. He takes a step forward.

" _Soldat_! Protect me!"

Karpov's sharp tone, the way he says _soldat_ just so, suddenly fills in the cracks and abruptly stops the magma flow of rage. The Soldier can't quite feel the pain and definitely cannot calculate the certainty of failure if he's to fight the other soldier again. Karpov's voice is in his ear, babbling… babbling something, he doesn't know what, but it keeps the rage down, keeps the thoughts away, hollows him out and turns him into a weapon once more.

The Colonel hides behind his Soldier and gets through the door to the cell. He could slam the door shut and lock it, easily leaving the Soldier to fend for himself. But he lets the Soldier through, lets him slam the bars with his metal arm and then stands there trembling as the other five stare at them with unconcealed hatred.

He looks up at his _Soldat._ There is nothing in his eyes. The gaze is vacant. He breathes in and sighs in relief. "Come along, _Soldat,"_ he says and marches away. The Soldier follows his order.

The others are too dangerous now. They're liabilities. But _Soldat,_ he will always be the Asset.

The Soldier goes to his cryo chamber without a struggle: another small relief. He closes his eyes.

 _You could have killed him._

The voice bubbles up through the cracks and his eyes snap open and meet the Colonel's through the thick glass and for one moment, he fixes Karpov with a baleful glare before the cold and the velvet darkness take him.


	11. Humpty Dumpty

_Chapter 8: Humpty Dumpty_

There were always cracks. Like Humpty Dumpty, no one could put me together again. Maybe it was thinking about the poached eggs that reminded me. Everyone assumes Humpty Dumpty was an egg but it never says that. We make a lot of assumptions based on what we want to think.

I've been reading a lot. Trying to catch up on what I missed.

It's horrible.

I read something and suddenly have some awful flashback and realize that the horrible thing that happened in history? I did it.

Technically Hydra did. But I was the Fist of Hydra. The little man with glasses, he called me that with a bizarre smile on his round face.

But people believe what they want to, and I? I was a ghost who never existed except to the woman with red hair who fought like it was a dance, and even she could never be sure.

Every time I was out of my time. I don't know what day is what, or what year things happened. It all blends together because they blended up everything in my mind time and time again. Each time it was like cracking an egg, then trying to put the shell back together. Each time new fractures appeared and some of me, whoever I am or was, leaked out.

The training, that was all muscle memory. That was survival. That was orders.

The arm, that was permanent. I hate it, hate seeing the silver glinting in the gap between my glove and my sleeve. I hate the fear that someone will see it, that I'll have to do things I don't want to do—things I never wanted to do. That I'll fall apart.

Because the programming, that was never a sure thing. The cracks would be filled in with their words and their orders and their torture, but then they'd reappear. They couldn't ever quite put their soldier back together again. But now I can't quite put Bucky back together again. There will always be cracks in him, cracks where the soldier will ooze through and I don't know when that will happen and it scares the fuck out of me.

I'm not Bucky. I haven't been for decades.

I'm not the Winter Soldier.

I'm someone, something in between.

I'm trying to put myself back together again. Trying to balance on Humpty Dumpty's wall, trying not to fall, hoping that maybe some of the pieces can come back together.

That's why I scrawl in these notebooks. That's why I read and remember and write down what I dream. It's my way of finding the pieces, my way of trying to put myself together, and if I can't do that, maybe I can at least figure out who and what I am now. Because I sure as hell am not the Sergeant, and I'm sure as fuck not the Soldier.


	12. I See Fire

_Chapter 10: I See Fire_

It's all red and there's fire and smoke can't breathe chest tightens. Scream swelling up caught in throat, mouth open wide no sound comes out.

Fire and flames and red sky and no stars or clouds or sun nothing but fire and can't breathe, drowning in fire, hissing and crackling and screaming but fire doesn't scream but this fire is screaming and it's not me and it's not him, the scream's still caught, swelling and stabbing and ready to burst through throat and blood boils and bubbles and still hissing, crackling, roaring, screaming…

Floating falling faces in the fire, peeled off of skulls, the pile of skulls I stand on, that he made, but we're the same and the vacant dead eyes flash with flames and mouths hang open and there's screaming inside and outside and some smile and all the faces through all the years. We're the same even though we're different and I want to scream as something tries to pull us apart but I can't because my mask is there and I pull and pull with the metal arm and how did the man on the bridge get it off if I can't and the fire's all around me burning me, burning us.

Flesh dissolves, bone turns to ash and I watch it all happen and now the faces are laughing and floating on the hot wind and I can only whimper and we're the same and we're different and the faces don't care because they're dead and the dead are past the point of caring.

The arm doesn't melt. It falls onto the pile of charred bones, reflecting the fire and I can't breathe through the mask and my hair is burning and I wish I was dying and for once so does he and we both can't do this and everything is red and smoke and hellfire and fever screams from everywhere except myself.

* * *

 _Cold sweat trickles down his spine and he wipes his face with a shaking hand. The night air is cool on his face, blowing in from the hole he punched through the wall of the train boxcar. He tries to breathe. Tries to cool down, forget the heat and fire and faces but every time he blinks he feels like he can see it all again, as vivid as when he dreamed it._

 _The train rumbles along the tracks, going somewhere, he's not sure where. He just knows he has to move before it's too late. No witnesses. Keep moving. Never stop._

 _It's no way to live._

 _But it's the only way not to die._

 _He takes a deep breath and tries to let the gentle rocking of the freight car on the tracks lull him. The past is the past. The end is the beginning. He is NOT the Winter Soldier. He is NOT theirs to command._

* * *

Just a dream. A vision, maybe? I deserve hell for everything I did. So many faces. So much death.

Who knows. Maybe burning for eternity wouldn't be that bad after all the time I spent in the cold.


	13. Shipping Out

_Shipping Out_

"You make me proud, son."

Bucky takes a deep breath and adjusts his tie yet again, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach. He smiles, the lopsided grin that's become his mask whenever he talks about the war, whenever he looks at his younger siblings (including Steve), when he thinks about getting to Europe, whenever he holds a gun.

He grasps his father's hand and grips tightly and his father can't speak, but won't cry either. He just reaches out to clasp Bucky's shoulder with his other hand and he nods once before turning away. "Thanks, Pop," Bucky manages to say. He swallows the slight lump in his throat. This could be the last time he sees his father. They've listened to the President's weekly addresses. They've read the papers. They know the numbers, and the odds of Bucky coming back aren't good.

But it's war, and they're grown men and they'll do what their country asks of them. For John Barnes, that means saying goodbye to his oldest son and retiring to read the paper while Bucky heads out to find Steve.

That's going to be the hardest goodbye of them all.

He walks the streets of Brooklyn, pausing at their old haunts and looking for signs of Steve. People nod in respect as he passes and he wishes he could say it's just a uniform, I'm scared of going, most guys are; but he smiles back, lightly touching the brim of his hat.

He starts peering down alleys and sure enough he hears a clatter and crash and Steve's groan before he says, "I could do this all day."

Bucky heads down the alley and grabs the other guy before he can get in another hit against Steve. He spins him around and dodges a punch before landing a solid hit against his jaw. It feels good to lash out, to release the tension he's been holding back. "Pick on someone your own size," he snaps and shoves the guy away. His hands tremble a little bit as he brushes dust off his jacket. He shakes his head. "Sometimes I think you like getting hit."

"I had him on the ropes," Steve insists. He always said that right after losing a fight, either in the alley or in the boxing ring.

"I can see that," Bucky says with a grin. He holds out his hand but Steve gets out of the trash pile on his own. He wipes away a trickle of blood with the back of his hand and rubs his jaw before actually looking Bucky up and down. Sometimes Bucky forgets how small Steve really is.

"Get your orders?" Steve asks, clenching his hands into fists and crumpling a piece of paper between his fingers.

Bucky takes a deep breath and forces a smile. "Sergeant James Barnes, 107th. Shipping out for England tomorrow." Saying it makes it real. The way Steve looks at him, his pale cheeks blotchy red as he realizes he's being left behind, makes it real. The feeling of a block of ice in his stomach makes it real.

"Hey. It's my last night," Bucky says, trying to smile for the both of them. He grabs Steve's fourth rejection, this one saying he's from Paramus— _Jersey, really, Steve?_ —and hands him a flyer. "We're going to the future."

The future is bright, full of color, like they've crossed over the rainbow into some strange Oz and left the dusty, dull war-torn world behind them. Connie's smile is radiant as she bounces up to them, her sister Bonnie slightly behind her, glancing demurely at Bucky even though she's there for Steve, who isn't even looking at her. He wishes Steve would just forget about it all, even if just for this one night, as a favor to his best friend. All he wants is to dance with a pretty girl and dream of a future without the war.

So he absorbs the colors and the lights and the smell of Connie's perfume and goes all childish-wide-eyed when Howard Stark shows off his floating car; they've all been thinking about the War, and before that, the Depression and now, seeing the future gives them all something to hope for. Stark is smooth as glass even when the contraption crashes to the stage. "I did say a few more years," he says with a laugh.

Someday they'll have their flying cars, but tonight Bucky just wants to fly around the dance floor. "Come on, Steve, why don't we…" he begins, but Steve's gone. Bucky shrugs apologetically to Bonnie, who just twirls a ringlet around her finger.

Of course the fair would have a recruitment center. And it wouldn't be Bucky's last night if he wasn't trying to save Steve from another fight. He sees Steve filling out the paperwork, standing in line, a head and shoulders shorter than the other guys. "You really going to do this again?" he asks him quietly.

"It's a fair. I thought I'd try my luck."

This is what it is to Steve: a game of chance, a stroke of luck. He insists he's got nothing to prove, that he can't sit by idly while people lay down their lives-and with a sharp pang Bucky realizes that he is in that category now. And maybe it's about Steve proving himself, maybe it's about him not being left behind.

All Steve sees is Bucky getting all the chances he doesn't have: with the girls, with a family, with the war.

Who's going to look after Bucky's family when he ships out? Who's going to look after Steve and teach him boxing, get rid of the bullies, compare artwork, laugh about the latest films, analyze the President's strategy… He's going to miss having Steve around. Steve gets him. Steve feels more like a brother than Robert, his actual younger brother, does. So he feels like he has to protect Steve, and if he's gone, who will do that? Who's going to keep Steve out of trouble, keep him safe from himself?

That's what Steve doesn't get.

This isn't back alley fights in Brooklyn, this is war. Guns and tanks and dead bodies and letters coming home to parents, invasions and airstrikes and death camps. It's death in its most brutal efficiency. The reality makes Bucky feel cold all over.

Steve is back in line. He's always been stubborn and headstrong. They both have. There's no reasoning with either one of them, or beating them into submission when they've latched on. It's part of what makes them such good friends.

"Hey. Don't do anything stupid until I get back," Bucky says. His way of acknowledging that Steve will do what Steve wants.

"How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you." Steve's cheeks are blotchy red again and he doesn't meet Bucky's eyes.

Bucky swallows the lump in his throat. Steve's going to have to be fine without him, that's all there is to it. "You're a punk," he says, striding back to his friend and hugging him. Steve is thin and bony, and even though they've tried bulking him up with weights and boxing, it's clear that nothing short of a miracle is ever going to put some meat on him.

"Jerk," Steve mutters, slapping him on the back.

Bucky releases him and straightens his tie and smooths his uniform. He adjusts his jacket and blinks to clear his vision.

"Hey Sarge! I thought we were going dancing!" Connie calls and he turns his back on Steve, focusing on Connie's bright smile and sparkling eyes, and Bonnie, eyeing Steve warily.

"Don't win the war before I get there!" Steve yells after him.

Bucky turns to face him, probably for the last time, and salutes him. Then he jogs over to Connie and Bonnie and wraps an arm around each of their waists. He laughs, he grins, he brushes off comments about Steve. He dances, his heart pounding and his laughter echoing in his ears and the night lingers on. He should sleep. But tomorrow he ships out and maybe, just maybe if he keeps dancing and stops thinking, tomorrow will never come.


	14. Animal

_Author's note: Very dark chapter, memories of violent torture and allusions to animal abuse though none is depicted; it's an analogy to how Hydra treats Bucky._

* * *

 _Animal_

It takes time. Lots of time. But eventually he learns that it's best to just stop fighting back.

He deserves the punishments anyway. That's what they say, and what reason does he have to doubt them? If he doubts them, they hit harder.

So he stops struggling when they shackle him and he hangs in the chains meekly and hopes that his compliance will mean fewer lashes. He stops wincing with each fiery lick of the lash against his back and hopes that they'll just put him away and the cold will numb the pain. Maybe he won't wake up.

He always does.

At first he tried to run. They beat him within an inch of his life, and when he regained consciousness the beating continued. He begged for death: in English, in Russian, in what little German he'd picked up… somewhere, sometime… and finally in wordless groans and sobs. He tried to run again and they beat him and strapped him into the Chair so tightly he lost circulation and they forgot about him while he screamed and cried and his mind was ravaged again and again and again and…

Sometimes he kills a handler, but Hydra has the men to spare. Cut off one head, two more take its place. But just to be safe they start locking him down with thick metal bands on the way to the drop off, and on the way back to the rendezvous point.

Then he realizes he can just rip out their throats and he sits there grinning with blood smeared all over his face and soaking his hair and oozing through his teeth and drizzling down his leather tactical gear and the next time he wakes up his gear also consists of a mask that covers half his face. He thrashes and writhes about and it takes four or five guys to hold him down-even with the chair restraints. Fingers tangle in his hair, tearing out strands, and hold his head still so someone can get it over his mouth and nose and secure and lock it at the back of his neck. When they release him he's trembling, fists clenched and breath hissing in through his nose and condensing inside the mask. But it's not really a mask, no matter what they say about ventilation and protection from environmental toxins.

It's a muzzle.

Animals need training. They need to remember their place.

And so he is taught his place: even when he's compliant he's still muzzled and strapped into his gear, a constant reminder that he is nothing more than their weapon. He's subhuman. He belongs to them.

He eventually learns to let them manhandle him, because it's easier.

He tries to find a corner of his mind he can lock himself away in, so he can pretend he doesn't feel the pain and humiliation. They've obliterated every corner of his mind. There's nowhere to run.

He deserves it all, anyway.

His only worth to them is as their weapon.

Mission, mission report, mind wipe, cryo. If he's lucky. If he's not lucky, he just doesn't fight back. It's over more quickly that way.

Sometimes.


	15. Parlez-vous Français?

_Parlez-vous Français?_

Jacques doesn't even try to speak a lick of English. He goes on and on and Bucky and and the others just stare at him with furrowed brows, pretending they get it when they don't. Gabe is grinning and Jacques glances over at him and they burst out laughing. "He said that her father chased him right into the pigsty," he translates, still laughing.

The rest of them laugh too, even though they were lost long before the pigsty; but the point isn't understanding the conversation, it's just being together drinking between missions.

"What do you even do with a French major?" Bucky asks Gabe between drinks one night.

"Where do you even store all that?" Gabe asks with a raised eyebrow and Bucky looks down at his drink to see he's keeping pace with Steve, who, to his frustration and the guys' amusement, can't get drunk.

"Can't let the Cap feel embarrassed," Bucky says with a grin and drains his glass again. He feels a little tingly, but nowhere near as drunk as he probably should be. Mostly he just has to take a leak something awful. "But seriously. French?" It's easier to just not think about it. They all know why Cap can't get drunk, and it's kind of funny to watch him try-typical Steve, still trying to fit in even when all he does is stand out. Bucky… he wasn't a lightweight by any means, but he should be passed out by now. French. Think French.

"I was studying German," Gabe begins, and the guys laugh again.

"That's probably even more useless than French," Dum Dum says, taking a puff of his cigar.

"Not when there was a war in Germany," Gabe fires back. He takes a shot of whiskey and winces. "But I switched to French because the girls are much prettier." Low whistles and grins of appreciation all around. Gabe grins widely. "Knowing French might even help you out, Dum Dum."

"And the first shots have been fired," Jim says, leaning back in his chair. He's pretty tipsy by now. Most of them are. Falsworth is pacing himself with his brandy, always the proper Brit, and Jim's giving him shit for it; Falsworth pretends to be irritated, but the fact is, Jim saved his ass from a Hydra gunner the last time they were out in the field, and Falsworth was a theater major at one point and is a fantastic actor.

"I'll bite," Bucky says suddenly. "Teach me something in French. Something that'll make a girl look at me rather than him," he adds, nodding toward Steve.

"Hey, I can't help this," Steve says, glancing at his biceps. He smiles. "But if you think French will give you a chance, then _parlez-vous_ all you want."

"So that's how it's going to be," Bucky tells him. But they both know Steve's only got eyes for Agent Carter, and even though it's likely nothing's going to happen-so long as the war's going on-when they talk like this it's almost like they're kids in Brooklyn again. Already so much has changed about them that they know they can't ever go back to that; but they can try to recapture those feelings, when all they had to worry about was finding a couple girls to dance with on a Friday night.

Jacques is watching all of this with a skeptical eyebrow raised. Bucky's convinced that he knows exactly what they're all saying, even though he doesn't speak English (or pretends not to) and Gabe does all the translating. One of these days he'll catch the Frenchman at his game.

He calls over for a glass of red wine this time, a sudden departure from his beer and occasional shot. "Don't they drink wine in France?" he asks. Most of the guys shrug. Gabe translates, Jacques laughs and says something incomprehensible. "Hey, the only time I went to France was when we took out that Hydra encampment a few months ago. Can't blame me for trying," he points out. Gabe translates again, and this time Jacques nods his concession.

" _Bonjour,"_ Jacques says. He nods once.

"Bonn jore?" Bucky says, and Jacques shakes his head and repeats himself. Bucky tries to repeat after him, twisting his mouth and puckering his lips and he just can't get the smooth flowing French to come out right and then they're all laughing.

"Yep, that's gonna drive the girls wild," Gabe says, slapping his thigh. "If we're ever in France again just buy a girl a glass of wine and hope for the best. Better yet! Open up that trap of yours, and let them come running to me instead!"

"Here. Try this," Steve says. "A girl says, _parlez-vous fran_ _çais,_ you can say _je ne parle pas français_."

"When the hell did you learn French?" Bucky asks, downing his glass.

"I listen to them," Steve says with a grin and a glance at Jacques and Gabe.

Cheeky punk. "Whatever. But if I can't even say bonn jore right, makes you think I'll say whatever you said right?"

"I have faith in you, buddy," Steve says and claps him hard on the shoulder before ordering everyone another round.


	16. Orders

_Orders_

The night smells of cherry blossoms and cut grass, all too sweet as he skulks through the darkness. He easily disarms the alarm system and glides through the door and down the hardwood halls.

"Goodnight, Mr. Pierce," a woman calls. Her voice is pleasant. She probably has children waiting at home, probably has to cook dinner after a day of cleaning up Pierce's messes.

He takes a seat at the table and watches the smug, self-assured… yes, arrogant bastard open the fridge and even takes a little bit of pleasure when Pierce turns around and nearly jumps out of his robe. "Milk?" he asks instead, quickly regaining composure and pouring himself a glass. His hands tremble slightly, the only sign that he's disconcerted by having the Asset sitting at his kitchen table.

This is perplexing, because the big man said Pierce wanted to see him, said it was an order, hefted a heavy black club with a crackling, electrified tip in his meaty hands and grinned when the Asset hesitated even slightly. And now here he is, as ordered-because that's what soldiers do-and Pierce is offering him a fucking glass of milk.

He just stares and waits. The ball is in Pierce's court now. He's still, barely breathing, hardly blinking. He reaches for his sidearm and Pierce jumps just slightly. It's nice to see him squirm. He hates the man. But orders are orders. He places the gun on the table and folds his hands in his lap. He waits. Just waits for his orders. That's all he does, that's all he needs to do. Wait and try not to seeth, just hope it's over with and he can withdraw into the cold and sleep until the next time and the next time and the next.

Pierce sits down and searches the Asset's face. He's expressionless. Makes it quick if he's blank and empty. Pierce nods and leans forward. "The timetable has been moved up. Two targets, level six, confirmation of death in ten hours."

Two sixes in ten hours. A stretch, considering he barely made it within the timeframe with his last target, the man with the eyepatch. But they're traveling together. Shouldn't be too hard, and he's been given clearance to go out in broad daylight. People will see the Fist of Hydra and will know what happens to those who oppose the organization. Hail fucking Hydra.

"Mr Pierce?" The pleasant woman's voice again. The Asset feels a strange pang in his gut. Pierce does bad things without thinking twice, and because he wants to. Not because he's been ordered to. The Asset shouldn't feel this way. He follows orders. He's scrubbed clean after every mission to ensure he doesn't feel this way. He scrapes himself hollow until he's just a thin shell, a machine masquerading as a man. Don't feel what they do to him. Don't feel what he does to others.

It's all orders. Orders are meant to be followed. There are consequences otherwise.

"Mr Pierce, I'm sorry, I forgot my phone…" She stops as she rounds the corner and sees them sitting at the table, her mouth agape. "Oh…" she murmurs, her eyes fixed on the Asset. He's made of darkness, a shadow in the shadows. His leather gear is so broken in it doesn't creak and his entire body is an efficient weapon built for stealth and efficacy. He stares back at her. _I'm so sorry, you've made a mistake, it's because I'm here…_ he thinks, but he remains expressionless as Pierce glances over at him, then at her.

"Oh Renata," Pierce says, shaking his head. He reaches across the table and _picks up the Asset's gun_. "You really should have rung the bell first." He squeezes the trigger without hesitation.

The muzzle flash is only an instant of brightness but he sees _everything._ The way Renata's eyes widen when she realizes her boss is murdering her. The way her body goes rigid, bracing itself for an impact it can't sustain. The way she thinks, in that eternal moment before she's hit, if she should turn; or duck; or run; or scream. The way she realizes she was in the wrong place at the wrong time and the Asset somehow knows exactly what she's feeling and knows that between the two of them, she's getting off more easily but he says nothing, because he's only here for his next orders.

She crumples to the floor, blood bubbling up out of the bullet wound in her chest and soaking into the pale plush carpet. Her eyes are still open, staring at the ceiling, her mouth still open in a small 'o' of shock at her employer's betrayal.

He never sees betrayal in their eyes. Fear, confusion, anguish, but never betrayal. They don't know him, he doesn't know them so there can't be betrayal, only death, only another tally on his long list of crimes. Her look of complete betrayal makes bile boil up at the back of his throat.

Pierce just shakes his head and slides the Asset's gun across the glass tabletop. He catches it without looking and in one smooth motion slides it back into his leg holster. Pierce turns away from Renata's body. Someone will come take care of it: disposal, cleanup, all his dirty work; and he will continue to present his facade of shining, exemplary citizenship and servitude to the public. He's nothing more than a killer. They're all killers.

"Ten hours," Pierce reminds him with an edge to his voice. His eyes are hard and cold in the dim light as he swigs down his glass of milk.

The Asset rises, his movements no more than a whisper in the shadows. He nods once and turns.

"Oh. Take care of _that,"_ Pierce orders, waving his hand dismissively at Renata's body.

He _does not_ want to do it but orders are orders and even if he tried to defy the orders Pierce knows just what tone of voice to use to trigger subtle mechanisms implanted in the Asset's brain. He clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath as he turns around and strides back through the kitchen. He makes no effort to keep quiet this time.

Her eyes are still open, seeing nothing. He closes the lids with his metal fingers. He can't feel anything with them so he doesn't feel that she's still warm. He's strong anyway, but that arm is stronger, so he hardly feels her weight as he hefts her over his shoulder. She flops against his back, dead weight, her blood slicking his leather tactical vest.

He takes care of the body; he knows the dark places, the lonely places where no one will ever think to look. He wonders if they'd find _him_ here but no, he has orders and those are meant to be followed no matter what. He thinks about running but he's done that before and knows better. There's a disconnect in his mind between what he wants and what he can make himself do, and no matter how much he wants to get away, his muscles won't obey that thought because _he has orders and orders are meant to be followed_.

 _Listo para cumplir._

 _Prêt à se conformer._

 _Bereit zu erfüllen._

 _Gata să se supună._

 _Gotov povinovatsya._

 _Ready to comply._

Always, always ready to comply, even when he isn't, because what he wants doesn't matter.

All that matters is that Pierce gave him a ten hour window and he's used two of those hours disposing of the body of Pierce's housekeeper and has eight hours to go, and he's fucking exhausted and too warm and sweaty and just wants cold and sleep.

He never thought he'd want the cold. Always thought that he'd hate it and fight it. But now he longs for it, counts the short spans of missions as his dreams while the cold is his life, and he just wants to go back there, but he can't, not yet.

He has orders, and orders are meant to be followed.


	17. Not in Kansas

_Not in Kansas_

It's still sweltering in the theater, but the darkness before the show is calming and maybe just a little bit cooler than outside. The theater is surprisingly empty for a Saturday night, but with the heatwave baking Brooklyn, maybe most people have gone down to the beaches or out to Coney Island to be by the water. Bucky undoes the top two buttons of his shirt and rolls up his sleeves. It doesn't help much. He fans himself with the newspaper he had in his jacket pocket. That sort of helps.

"What did you hear about this movie?" Steve whispers next to him. He slouches in his seat, which is too big for him.

"Just that it's good. No one will tell me anything, but they all seemed to like it."

He needs this break. Lately it's been nothing but bad news coming out of Europe. He's torn between feeling like it's not his problem, and wanting to dive in alongside the Allied forces. He takes out his frustrations at work and after at the gym. He drives his fists into the punching bag until he's sore and can't fight anymore.

So even if it is hot as hell in here, it feels good to just sit and watch Judy Garland chase her dog around dust-bowl Kansas. When she sings about over the rainbow, he gets it. The world is tearing itself to pieces; if they could just go somewhere else, where there was no Depression and no war in Europe… well, who wouldn't want that?

It's a good story, and he does actually wonder if a tornado would ever sweep through Brooklyn and take them away. Well, it would probably blow Steve away, the kid's built like a sapling. And it's no surprise that Ms. Gulch on the bike turns into a witch. Seriously, who treats a little yappy dog like a menace? And who could be mean to Judy Garland?

When Dorothy's house comes crashing down into silence, he realizes he's been leaning forward. He wants so badly to be part of this dream, to think of a better world than what they have.

She goes to open the door, Toto in her arms.

He holds his breath.

Next to him, Steve is wide-eyed and gripping the arms of his seat.

Neither of them are prepared.

The screen explodes into dazzling color: reds and greens and golden yellows and if this is over the rainbow, Bucky will take it. He even has to stifle a giggle when Dorothy proclaims, "We're not in Kansas anymore."

For the next hour he's not in Brooklyn and the sweltering heat is just a mere annoyance. There is no war and no fight, at least nothing as important as Dorothy's fight to get home alive. But why would she _want_ to? What's left for her in bleak and black and white Kansas? Why leave a land where a wizard is all wise and powerful; where a good witch in the fluffiest ballgown anyone will ever see can place a charm of protection on you; where your worst problems are someone stealing your shoes? Those things can't be comfortable anyway.

But then he glances over at Steve just briefly and his heart snags in his chest, like fabric caught on a rusty nail. On screen, Dorothy sees Auntie Em calling for her. Looking for her. Heartbroken that she's disappeared. The next seat over, Steve's eyes are glassy in the light of the movie screen.

He's coming up on three years since his mother died. And even though he spends most of his spare time with Bucky and his family, no one's looking into a crystal ball waiting for him to come home. Steve's world is as bleak as Kansas.

It's not about Munchkins or shiny shoes; it's not about witches and rainbows and yellow brick roads. It's about family, and being together no matter how bad things are. No matter how much the world is tearing itself apart.

Bucky can't even be disappointed when the screen fades back to black and white. All that matters is that Dorothy is home in Kansas, with her aunt and uncle and the farmhands, and the little house wasn't destroyed by the tornado; and maybe Ms. Gulch was the witch all along, and is now dead, or maybe she wasn't but she'll leave Toto alone. Maybe Oz was just a dream, but maybe it was real, too. But one thing that is certainly real is that, even over the rainbow, things aren't perfect.

When they leave the theater it's still hot and Bucky wipes sweat off his forehead. He stares around at the brick buildings and glass storefronts with a new sense of wonder. He's Brooklyn born and raised, but it isn't until now that he really understands what it means to be home.

"Hey, where are you going?" he asks Steve, who's veering off to the right.

"Home," Steve says with a shrug. "Thanks for the movie, Buck. It was pretty good. I might even see it again sometime." He stares up at the sunset sky, reds and oranges and pinks rippling above the buildings and it's like he's looking over his own rainbow.

"I'll walk with you," Bucky says. "It's on the way."

Steve shakes his head and smiles. "No it's not and we both know it."

"I know a shortcut."

They talk about the movie, about the heatwave, about the war, and when they stop talking they've arrived.

At Bucky's house.


	18. Deti

_Warning for graphic Winter Soldier abuse and implied involvement of children during his mission._

* * *

 _Deti_

His system metabolizes toxins faster than normal, so they're nearly out of tranquilizers when they land in the frozen wastes. He's starting to come around again, eyes bleary as tendrils of sweat-soaked hair stick to his face. He blinks a few times and tries to focus, but they move quickly: an efficient team of bulky, strong handlers who still need the Winter Soldier to be sedated if any of them want to survive.

They bind his wrists behind him with thick metal cuffs and then drag him through the snow, one man on each arm, two with assault rifles following, aiming at his head. He can practically _feel_ the little red laser dots burning into his skull. He blinks at the brightness, the cold gray sky and stark white of the snows. The cold seeps through his leather gear and makes his eyes water and he starts to feel awake again. It's that momentary panic, the cold before the cold. But his limbs are too heavy. His brain, what's left of it that he can sort out, is fuzzy.

His feet drag on the ground. He tries to get his legs under him and the rifles all click and the grip on his arms tightens. What did he do this time? Why did the target deserve him? Why is he restrained-

 _Deti._

He drops his legs and gets his feet under him. They always train guns on him-he's dangerous, after all-but they never shoot. He's too valuable. He can't lash out, his arms are too tightly restrained, and he can't bite them because they never take off his mask when he's awake anymore. He throws his bulk to the left, relying on the extra solidity of his metal arm, and knocks the guy over. He wheels around and headbutts the other guy, and then there's a third jamming an electrified baton just below his sternum.

The jolt makes his teeth rattle and he collapses into the snow. The beefy guy kicks him in the ribs with a heavy, steel-toed boot. He hears the snap of breaking bone and can't do anything but lie there, gasping and dizzy. _Deti. Deti_. He wants to throw up. _Deti_. If he throws up he'll choke on his own vomit. He hopes he throws up. _Deti_.

" _Zveryo_ ," the man growls as he drags him deep into the complex. The Soldier struggles-he can't not fight-and every time the guy drops him to the concrete floor and gives him a jab with the electrified end of his baton. He welcomes the pain, he deserves it. The memory flashes through his brain, clear and bright and more real than his prison walls.

Wide eyes and mouths open in silent screams. Blood-spattered walls and faces. Tiny hands and snub noses.

The order: no witnesses.

He disobeyed orders.

 _Deti,_ he'd said into his comm link as he turned and left. Shouting in his ear. Rage. Garbled attempts to retake control, and then the order to subdue and extract him before the drug-induced darkness.

The handler throws him into a cramped, dark cell with no windows and only one exit. The walls are padded; he won't be able to bash his skull into pieces. Apparently they are the only ones allowed to mess with his head in any way. Even feeling dazed, he's still looking for weaknesses and cracks in the security.

"Know what we do to animals?" the big man asks. He hauls the Winter Soldier up by his hair. He fastens a thick leather collar around his neck; a chain dangles from it, attached to the wall. He barely has enough slack to lie down, let alone make any sort of rush for the door. He tries to lunge at the handler, just out of reach, and the collar crushes his windpipe. The guy laughs and slams the cell door behind him.

The Winter Soldier sits in the darkness focusing on feeling every ache. He deserves this. He did not follow orders, but no, more than that: deti.

Hours pass. He just stares into the dark thinking about the small faces and expressions of horror that can never be erased. The thin, high screams. The blood. Always the blood.

The door creaks open and he squints at the thin sliver of light that pierces his dark cocoon. He grinds his teeth beneath his mask-fuck it, it's not a mask and never has been, it's a fucking muzzle-and twists his wrists in the cuffs behind his back. His metal arm grates against the restraint.

"Mission report," the Colonel says, standing in the doorway.

" _Deti,"_ the Soldier says simply, voice muffled.

 _"You had orders. No witnesses."_

 _"Deti. Deti. Deti_ …" he murmurs. _Children. Children. Children._

The Colonel sighs and hands his file folder off to the waiting guard outside the door. He kneels down next to the Winter Soldier, who feels his rage waking up again as he eyes the man who ordered him to kill children, for the simple crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He's paying enough for his own wrong place, wrong time; he won't make others do it, too. He feels the growl surging in his throat, a feral noise born of animalistic rage that comes from the raw, exposed primitive part of him that they've cut into.

It wells up into a sound somewhere between a bark and a scream and a growl and he lunges at the Colonel, but the chain catches and yanks him back against the wall, leaving him on his knees with his hands behind his back, staring at the Colonel with hot hatred in his eyes. " _Deti,_ " he snarls, his jaw muscles fighting the mask and spittle drizzling down his chin. His heart pounds and he's practically panting and all he feels is the need to kill the man in front of him. _Zveryo_ indeed.

The Colonel grabs the chain close to the collar and pulls just enough that the Soldier will have to relent if he hopes to breathe. He makes a few choking noises and the skin around his eyes turns purplish before he finally gives in to the Colonel. He kneels there like the dog he is. The Colonel grabs a hunk of his hair in his other hand and twists it in between his fingers, forcing the Soldier to look up and at him. There's unmistakable disgust and contempt on the Colonel's face, but also curiosity. How can their perfect weapon be so imperfect? How can their mindless _soldat_ think for himself?

He twists his grip and the Soldier winces in spite of himself. " _Deti_ ," he mumbles, meeting the Colonel's eyes. His wrists twist and even though he can't see it, the Colonel is sure that his teeth are gritted together and his nostrils are flared, and he's watched the soldier rip out a man's throat before and he's glad of the mask. He needs to get the soldier back on ice. He's too unstable now. He'll fight the machine too hard, and kill too many handlers in the process. Even Hydra may not have enough heads. They've created a savage beast and now they have to deal with it.

He meets the soldier's eyes. " _Longing._ " The Soldier stiffens. " _Rusted."_

" _Nyet,"_ the Soldier says softly.

" _Seventeen. Daybreak."_

The Soldier tries to shake his head. His eyes are wide with fear and his breath hisses through his mask. _"Nyet. Nyet!"_

 _"Furnace. Nine. Benign."_

The Soldier lets out an animal yowl, struggling against the Colonel's grip. The Colonel tightens his hold on his hair. Tightens his grip on the chain. He kneels down and forces the Soldier to look him in the eye. _"Homecoming. One."_

The Soldier is almost crying now, his eyes bleary and confused. " _Nyet…. Deti…"_ he sobs.

 _"Freightcar."_ The soldier stops struggling. His breathing steadies. " _Soldat?"_ The Colonel asks, searching the suddenly blank eyes.

His voice is muffled when he says, " _Gotov povinovatsya_ ," but he's steady and staring straight ahead at nothing.

" _Deti?_ " the Colonel dares to ask. But the Soldier just stares at him, waiting for orders. The Colonel himself releases him from his chains, though he leaves the mask on for good measure as he leads the soldier down the dank, chill corridors and back to the peace of cryostasis.

* * *

 _Zveryo = animal/beast/dog_

 _Gotov povinovatsya = ready to comply_

 _Many thanks to ScarletDeva for providing the phonetic spellings._


	19. Promise Me

_Warning for sex... Hey, it's his last night before he ships out. And no, it's not Stucky.  
_

* * *

 _Promise Me_

His heart's still pounding and he's still breathless and a little dizzy from whirling around the dancefloor. Connie's glossy dark curls are askew and he pushes her hair away from her face as he bends down to kiss her. Her breath is warm on his upper lip and her kiss is sweet. She wraps her arms around his neck, pressing her body into his. Bucky deepens the kiss and then his tongue is in her mouth and she's holding him more tightly, as if she can anchor him to this moment.

"Let's run away," she gasps in a moment between kisses. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes sparkling. "Forget the war." Her fingers tug at his tie and fumble with his shirt buttons.

He doesn't object, but he doesn't agree, either. Here in the dark, with only the streetlights shining in the window to see by, this moment is all there is. He doesn't want it to end but they both know it will. Morning will come; he'll button up his uniform once more and he'll be off to Europe. But right now they can pretend that running away together is a viable option.

"Give me an excuse," he tells her playfully.

They've done this before, quickly in the semi-dark, always afraid someone will come home or they'll be found out. But tonight Connie's parents are down on Montauk and Bonnie's still out with some other guy she ended up dancing with. Bucky ships out to Europe tomorrow.

They take their time. Connie trails her fingers over his chest and his skin breaks into goosebumps at her teasing touch. He takes her by the wrist and kisses her fingertips one by one. She slides his shirt off his shoulders. He helps her unbutton her dress and it slithers to the floor. She steps out of the pile of fabric, clad only in her lacy underthings. He's seen her like this before. But now he realizes that he's really leaving and the next time he sees Connie they'll both be different people, with or without clothes on.

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed and pulls her into his lap and just stares at her in the dark. "Promise me you won't wait for me," he tells her, brushing her hair out of her face and resting his hand on her cheek.

"Promise me you'll come back," she counters with a grin. But it doesn't quite reach her eyes because they both know this is a promise he can't keep.

"Give me a reason," he tells her, and then her mouth is on his and his hands are all over her, memorizing the softness of her skin, the curves of her body, the way she moves in response to his touch. He leans back, pulling her on top of him. Her hair falls over her shoulders again and he's lost in a cloud of dark waves. The smell of her perfume is cloying and flowery and he almost drinks it in, desperate to hang onto what details he can.

Then they're both fumbling with his belt and the buttons on his pants and he kicks off his pants and underwear in one motion. Connie's body against his brings him to life. Sure, there will probably be other girls in Europe, and there have been other girls in Brooklyn, but right now she's the only one who can infuse him with this passion and energy. He unhooks her bra and runs his hands over her breasts, pert and responsive to his touch. He grins into another kiss and her breath comes in hitching gasps as his fingers slide under her panties and find her sensitive spot.

He shifts so she's lying down and teases her with his fingers. Her hands curl into fists, gripping the sheet and she arches her back into his touch and bites her lip to keep from groaning even though they're miraculously alone. Old habits. He grins and bends down, mouth on hers. She wraps her arms around him, her fingers digging into his back as she groans into his kiss. She grinds her hips against his hand; he curls his fingers against her walls. His member presses into her leg, almost throbbing with his own need.

Connie suddenly stiffens and then trembles against him. She gasps for breath and buries her face in his neck, her arms tight around him as she pulses around his fingers. At last she lies back, her eyes half-open and the light of the streetlamps reflecting there. She stares at him contentedly and manages to raise one hand up to brush his hair out of his face. She meets his gaze and nods once, a tiny smile on her lips.

She shivers as Bucky slips his fingers out of her. He slides her lacy panties off; she shudders when he slowly enters into her. He closes his eyes. Normally they hurry; normally she teases him about making an honest woman out of her. Tonight he takes it slow, sliding in her and feeling everything about it. Her hands are warm on his hips, and after a few thrusts, she's moving with him. He keeps his eyes closed and just feels the movement of their bodies, slick with sweat. He's nearing his threshold and he sighs slightly as he begins to pull out.

Connie stops him with her hands on his backside. "No."

Eyes still closed. Body trembling, trying to hold it back. "Connie…"

"This could be our last time together," she whispers, combing her fingers through his hair.

"Even more of a reason not to. What if…"

"I'll take the chance," she whispers, leaning up to brush her lips against his as she plants her hands on his hips and guides him back into her. "That just means you have to promise me you'll come back."

He peaks and rides the waves of pleasure until his bones turn to jelly and he can't support himself. He manages to roll off and collapse beside her. Connie turns onto her side and stares at him, running her fingers through his hair. "Promise me. Please."

Bucky takes her hand and kisses it. He dares to glance over at her. Her dark eyes are shiny with tears and her lip is trembling. "None of that now," he murmurs, running his thumb over her cheek. It comes away wet.

"I love you, Bucky," she whispers, nestling against his chest.

His heart skips a beat and he's not sure if the painful hollowness in his gut is joy or guilt and then knows it must be guilt because he doesn't love her, because he _can't_ love her. As of tomorrow, he's a dead man walking. He wraps an arm around her and kisses her forehead. Her face is salty with sweat and tears. "Promise you won't wait," he tells her again. "That if the right guy comes along, you'll go to him. That you'll love _him_." He takes a deep breath. "If I come back before that, _then_ we'll see if I can make good on promises to you."

"But Bucky, I really-"

He kisses her hard and deep and she struggles to get a breath. He pulls away and meets her gaze in the dim light. "Connie, can you do that for me?" His voice is a ragged whisper.

She nods, biting her lip to keep from sobbing. He kisses her once more. "At least… at least promise you'll try to come back," she says after a few moments of quiet.

"That… that I can promise," he tells her. He doesn't want to die overseas. He'd love to come back to this, or something like it, but he doesn't want to make a promise he can't keep. So he promises to try. It's the next best thing, and it's all he's got. He holds her close until he feels her body relax in his arms, and hears her breathing grow slow and deep. He gently kisses her forehead and slips out of bed, dressing quietly in the dark and sliding out of her house without looking back.


	20. The First Test

_Author's Note: Inspired by the Brubaker Winter Soldier comic._

* * *

 _The First Test_

He doesn't think about the arm at all; it moves just like his flesh and bone one on the right side, only faster, smoother, and stronger. He stands, staring straight ahead while two men finish explaining his gear to him, pulling straps and tightening laces. Knives, honed to a precise edge, checked in holsters; a silenced sidearm pistol at his hip. The shoulder harness has clips and buckles to change out his ordnance, but for now only holds a military grade assault rifle. He stares ahead at the reflection before him, looking through himself. He knows it's two-way glass. He knows he's smashed mirrors like this before. He knows he's done things, but can't recall when or why, and somehow he knows if he tries this time, even though he's being armed with live weapons, they won't hesitate to hurt him. Two more men stand by the door to the small room armed with shiny black metal batons. Somehow he knows that the tips are electrified and a long enough jab, aimed just below his left floating ribs, will stop his heart just long enough to make think think he's about to die.

Somehow he knows that at one point, some guard jammed the baton into his ear and scrambled his mind and made his teeth rattle in his jaw. He didn't like that.

So he stands, staring through himself, through a face he doesn't recognize but is his, must be his, and he waits.

The two men step back and the Colonel enters the room. "Good evening, Soldier. I have a mission for you."

"Ready to comply."

The three words are the only response they require of him. During early training exercises he tried asking questions, getting clarification, and learned that all they required was compliance, and all he needed was to comply. Sometimes he still wants to ask questions, feels the need to know more. Like now.

They drive down a dark road and he wants to know why it's so dark, but one risked glance at the Colonel's face and he swallows the question. The weapons harness is just a bit too tight around his chest. He wants to ask to loosen it. He takes a breath and the Colonel glares at him and he exhales slowly, quietly. Perhaps he wasn't ready to comply.

At last the truck stops and the sudden silence is welcome after all the noise. That's all it's been since he opened his eyes: noise. Voices, motors, machinery, all noise.

"Repeat your mission, Soldier."

"Three targets traveling in one vehicle. Make it look like an accident. Evacuate scene without witnesses and return to evac point before 0300."

"Good, soldier." The Colonel doesn't smile, though. The Soldier wants to ask why, but that's not part of compliance. And this is a test, a first time in the field. If he complies perhaps they won't hurt him. Perhaps they won't freeze him. That's it, he was frozen. That's why it was so quiet. He slept in the cold for so long. How long? Why? He can't ask.

They leave him alone in the dark and his eyes adjust quickly. He hears the distant laments of night birds and the squeaks of prey animals. He doesn't even know where he is. But it doesn't matter. He just has to take out three targets and make it look like an accident. Leave no witnesses.

He moves through the woods like a shadow. The faint light from the waning moon is just enough for him to see by, and he sees far, and sharp. He emerges on a roadside. He crouches and feels the road with his metal hand, which is remarkably sensitive-more than even his flesh hand. He feels the vibrations of a vehicle before his ears pick up the motor. He stands to his full height and sees the glow of headlights. No rapid heartbeat, no fear, no surge of adrenalin. No joy. Just the mission. His first test.

He doesn't question if this is the right vehicle. He plants his feet firmly on the road and pulls back his metal arm. The headlights get brighter, almost blinding. The squeal of brakes pierces the quiet night and the vehicle tries to swerve around him.

The Soldier slams his fist into the front grill. The impact knocks him through the air and he slams into the ground, the air driven from his lungs. This is a test. He ignores the pain; he's felt worse. He flexes his metal fingers as he gets his footing. The vehicle has swerved off the road and into the ditch.

Finish the mission. Pass the test.

No witnesses so far. Good.

He punches through the glass on the passenger side. The driver is slumped against his window, blood trickling from his ear and nose. He's not breathing. The passenger stirs and his eyes open slightly. He tries to focus on the Soldier. He coughs and the scent of alcohol is on his breath. The Soldier has smelled that before, from the endless guards and handlers that drink while they beat him into submission. He grabs the man around the throat and squeezes until his eyes bulge white in the darkness. Then he jerks him forward and slams his head into the dashboard so hard the front of his skull caves in. Blood, black and gooey, drips off the dash onto the floor.

"Hey man, what the hell?"

The voice is shaky and cracks the silence. _Now_ the Soldier feels the rapidly beating heart, _now_ he feels the fear. No witnesses.

The man in the back seat is groggy and rubs his head. He's wearing a tan US Army uniform. They all are. The Soldier feels an itch deep in his ear, in his brain, an irritation he can't scratch. He blinks uncertainly and stares at his dead friends. Then his eyes widen and he stares at the Soldier.

No witnesses. This is a test. His first test.

The Soldier grabs him by the collar and jerks him up into the front, between his dead friends, and puts his head through the windshield. The man is bleeding all over the hood of the Army issue truck. The itch is worse. The man is crying and begging and it's garbled and unintelligible, and the Soldier smells the vodka on his breath. He grabs him by the back of his head, metal hand easily palming the skull, and slams his face into the hood until the crying stops.

He steps back. It looks like an accident. There were no witnesses. There's something else he needs to do but he can't remember so he sits on the roadside staring into the darkness, waiting for something but he's not sure what. The first song birds of the morning are starting their songs when two muscled handlers show up and pick him up by the armpits and throw him into the back of a van that he didn't hear coming.

The Colonel is in there. "Mission report," he says as the engine grinds into gear and they leave the accident scene behind. The Soldier picks himself up and stares at the Colonel. "Mission report, Soldier," he repeats.

"Three targets neutralized without prejudice. No witnesses. Mission complete."

Colonel Karpov delivers a swift kick to his ribs. "You were not at the extraction point at the appointed time."

"Three targets neutralized without prejudice," the Soldier repeats. The itch is unbearable and he shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. "No… no witnesses. Mission comp-"

Karpov kicks him again. "Your mission is complete when you arrive at the extraction point by the appointed time. Your mission is complete when I say it is complete. Am I clear?"

Karpov's cold voice and hard eyes demand compliance, but compliance won't scratch the itch in his brain. "Why did I need to kill them?" he asks instead of answer.

The Colonel pulls back to kick him again but stops. He drops his boot on the metal floor of the van. "They were the enemy," he says. "Your mission is to destroy our enemies and help us usher in a glorious new world."

"They didn't do anything, though."

Karpov sighs. "They were the enemy. The first of many. You accomplished the objective, but not perfectly. We demand perfection from you. Complete, perfect compliance."

"They didn't need to die," the Soldier whispers. Tan Army uniforms. Smell of liquor on their breath. Sweat and stale cigarette smoke.

Another sigh. Karpov picks up the comm link and after a moment of static someone answers. "Subject grows unstable and increasingly noncompliant; ready the chair for our arrival."

All he can see in his mind now are three guys in Army uniforms, but they have different faces, faces he's never seen, but they're so familiar, and they're smiling; how could they be the enemy? He passed his first test, but at what cost?

"You will be rewarded for your success," Karpov says, and the Soldier glances up. "But for your failures you will be punished, and you will accept your punishment."

The chair. Now he feels the fear, and the adrenalin, and the racing heart and the itch he can't scratch is fire in his head and the van is too small and Karpov is soft and flesh and bone just like the men he killed and he's reaching out and there's a fiery pinprick in his neck and his head slams on the metal floor of the van and the rumble of the road underneath is a lullaby.


	21. 32557038

32557038

Eyes. I remember eyes. Faces and expressions blurring all into one, sometimes individuals… The voices and the begging and the screams and the crying and the gunshots and the soft hiss of the last breath.

But the eyes, the faces, the expressions.

Betrayal.

No witnesses. But the ones who were witnesses, that was bad.

Then there were the ones who were witnesses who fucking knew who I was. I didn't even know who I was, and they did which makes the betrayal even that much harder.

The girl with the red hair, who fought like it was a dance. I knew her. She spoke Russian soft as velvet and moved like a willow tree in a storm. She stared into my eyes and I shot through her and thought she was dead until I saw her on the bridge and we fought again, but this time she wasn't the willow in a storm, she was the storm. She stared into my eyes and she knew me and I didn't know her, and we traded hits the way dance partners traded steps.

But she was like me: unmade, broken, remade in their image. In any image. The only thing that didn't change was her red hair. The only thing that was hers and hers alone.

The man in the car called me Sergeant Barnes. He knew me. He looked right at me and knew me even when I didn't know myself, and more than that he knew my name and he called me my name and I still killed him. Then I killed her. I didn't know her. She didn't know me. No witnesses though.

He stared at me as I killed him. Sergeant Barnes, 32557038. He wouldn't have killed him, but I wasn't 32557038 anymore. I was tally marks on cement walls, names crossed out of ledgers written in red ink that dripped like blood. 32557038 was a soldier too, but he was a friend. A brother. A good man. By that point I was a ghost.

And I still betrayed him.

I feel sick.

It's never going to end, and when it does, it will be in a fight. That's something 32557038 and I both know.

It always ends in a fight.


	22. Someone You Save

_Someone You Save_

The details of Bucky Barnes's death, as the public knows it, are simple and tragic. He fell into a gorge in the Alps during a Howling Commandos mission, and as such was the only one of the band to give his life in service to the country. A body was never recovered.

Because no one came looking.

Why didn't anyone look for me? If they could find secret Hydra bases all over Europe, certainly they could have found me? With the speed of the train, and the trajectory of the fall, surely there was enough to go on. Stark found the Tesseract at the bottom of the ocean; surely he could have found me. Why didn't Steve come back for me? Steve, who said "the end of the line". When the line ended, where was he?

Bucky was someone worth saving. He was a good man; he had a family. He had a future after the war. He was loyal and dutiful, and a good friend and brother and son. He could have had a wife and raised a family. No one saved him. He was left to a fate worse than death.

The Winter Soldier, he's not worth saving. He's a rabid animal that needs putting down. He's not even entirely human, not anymore. Anything that made him human, or remotely worth saving, was scoured out of him.

And both are part of me.

I've been riding this freight train north for some time. Eventually I'll hit the end of the line, and then what? Then where?

No one came to save Bucky, but somehow part of him survived. Steve could have saved Bucky. Could have saved me.

Why did I pull him out of the Potomac? He wouldn't save me and I saved him. I almost killed him. I could have killed him and I didn't.

Because I'm with you til the end of the line.

Maybe the line didn't end. It just got broken off before picking back up again.

I can't keep living like this, hopping trains, picking pockets, scrounging for whatever I can find to eat. Bucky's still inside of me. Bucky's still the kind of guy worth saving. It wasn't the Soldier who pulled Steve out; and it wasn't me. It was Bucky, reaching out from deep inside. If that kind of guy is still inside, maybe there's some hope for me. Though it's been so long since I hoped I'm not sure what that is.


	23. Phantom Pain

_Phantom Pain_

The arm has been part of me for decades. I've never thought of it; it's just another weapon. But I'm not a weapon anymore. It's just a part of me now and I don't know how it works; if I want to reach for something, it happens; if I want to hold onto something, my hand grasps. I'm not sure if I feel what's happening; it's all natural, which is so strange because this metal arm is definitely unnatural.

Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes there's a throbbing down at my elbow or deep in the shoulder and I rub at it with my real hand like it will do something, but the metal plates don't move and don't respond to touch, and it just aches and burns there inside the metal wires and rods and who knows what makes up my limb. There are no nerves so it can't hurt, but it's there, a ghost of my old arm, and of my old self.

The skin around the shoulder plates is red and raw again. I stole a tube of antibacterial ointment awhile back and that's helped but I'm getting to the end of it. I don't know where the skin stops and the metal begins. I'm not sure why it hurts. I haven't had a flesh and blood arm for seventy years. You'd think the pain would stop, but you have that much pain for so long it's going to take some time.

I try not to think about it too much. Just keep going about my day, use the arm to get through those things that I might not be able to otherwise. Don't really think about what might happen if it shorts out or gets damaged. No one would know how to fix it. I'm not sure I know how to fix it, so I'll either have to learn or hope it doesn't break. The rest of me, I can fix if it breaks, or at least power through it. I have practice powering through the pain. But the metal arm is a liability if I'm not careful.

And then I wonder if the phantom pains are omens of something being wrong. And if something were to go wrong with the arm, would I know? It must have been injured before. I remember people working on it and looking at it: soldering irons, screwdrivers, tiny forceps… the red-haired woman: the Black Widow. In Washington she shorted out the arm. I think I got some motion back somehow, and technicians fixed the rest. Did it hurt then? Why does it hurt now?

Don't think about it, Bucky. Just don't think about it. Too much else to think about now. You have real pain to worry about. Pain you caused other people. Pain in your past. Let the arm take care of itself. It's a machine, and you're not. Not anymore.


	24. Raining in Baltimore

_Raining in Baltimore_

Came back south, sometimes by foot, sometimes by rail. Didn't think about the arm. Didn't think about what I had to do to keep myself going. Passed through the outskirts of New York and thought about seeing Steve. SHIELD's as done as HYDRA is, so he's full-time Avenger now. The news somewhere had something about Tony Stark facing off against a terrorist. The only thing that's good about that is the longer they focus energy elsewhere, the less of a priority I become. I thought about showing up at Stark Tower and asking for help. I thought about a warm bed and a soft blanket and good food and friends and decided to keep going. I think I need to get somewhere where people don't know the Soldier. Or Bucky. Where I can figure out who I am right now.

Finally hit Baltimore. I won't stay. It's too close to DC for comfort. I'm starting to think about Europe. That's where Bucky died and the Soldier was born so maybe it's a better place to be looking for myself.

I can't fly over; if anyone belonged on a no-fly list it's me. I have some fake documents I grabbed months ago when I raided the rendezvous point and left DC; I don't know why I took them, just that they could be useful. Survival requires resources. Resources aren't always food and shelter. Army training, assassin/spy training.

It's raining here. I'm cold and wet. But not the good cold, the restful cold that brings sleep and stops the pain and the dreams and brings the darkness. Miserable cold. Threadbare uniform on a muddy battlefield cold. I have enough money for sludgy coffee at a dive diner. I didn't want to live this way. I don't know how to live though.

What I have:

\- Notebooks. A thousand scattered pages of memories, some coherent, others disjoined.

\- Pens

\- Cheap and undetailed maps of various cities

\- Three HYDRA passports: one Russian, one German, one US

\- Clothes on my back

\- Tube of A&D ointment

\- Eyeglass repair kit. Don't remember getting this. Is handy on arm.

\- No clue where I'm going

The notebooks are the bulk of what I have. They're not full, even if my head is. The diner has a rack of tourist brochures. Not sure how old they are; some look faded. Baltimore has a nice waterfront: nice shops and restaurants for nice people. I'm not a nice person. Sometimes I don't know if I'm even a person. But south, along the eastern bank of the Patapsco River, is a shipping port.

I may have a strategy. It's nice to have a strategy that doesn't involve killing people as the end goal.

It's still raining. But I think I need to take a walk down to the waterfront.


	25. Pearl Harbor

_Pearl Harbor_

War's a funny thing. It's always far off, always happening to someone else. Until it's on your back stoop, and it's happening to you.

War came to the back-most back stoop for us: Hawaii. Most of us listened to reports of what was happening in Africa and Germany. There was talk about Asia. But it wasn't ever anything we took seriously. U-boats silently floating into the harbors and piers of the east coast? Sure. That was our back yard. That was where we played. I had a job on the docks for a bit. We would sit around at lunch and shoot the shit while we watched the water. I don't think we even really thought it would come to that, but the threat was there.

Then we woke up one morning in December and everything changed. Suddenly the Pacific was more than a mysterious expanse of blue on the left side of the map. Hawaii was more than just a chain of islands and pineapple farms. Japan was more than just islands off the coast of China. The U-boats could come into the harbors, and the war planes could fly over our roofs.

We weren't safe anymore.

Not that we ever really had been. But we had this illusion that we were insulated, that _those_ things happened over _there._ Until they didn't. Until they happened _here_.

I remember Pop's face. He sat there all still, listening to the president on the radio, just staring at nothing. He looked kind of pale. At one point I think he stopped breathing. His jaw was clenched tight and maybe he was trying to hold back tears, which was weird because Pop didn't cry. Mom could only sit with him, hand on his shoulder. I didn't get it then.

Now I do.

Pop fought in the Great War. It was supposed to be the war to end all wars. And here was another war: greater, bigger.

Worst of all: he looked at me and Robert, and then at Steve, who was over before mass. Mostly he looked at me and Robert. He wasn't seeing sons, he was seeing soldiers.

We weren't safe anymore. Maybe we hadn't ever been.

The only certain thing that Sunday morning was that the world we'd known was different and couldn't ever be the same again. We woke up that morning, jolted out of the dream of peace our fathers earned us. It would be great to go back to sleep again, but I don't think we'll ever get that back. We learned a lot, but most of all we learned that war doesn't just happen there. It happens here, too.


	26. Mission Report

_Author's Note: Why yes, I did post this entry on 12/16._

* * *

 _Mission Report_

Spell: a story told, or a formula of power of mankind.

Spell: to name, write, or otherwise give letters in order.

Phrases: cast a spell, put a spell on, under a spell.

Words have power. Once spoken they can't be taken back. Once written they can never be fully erased. Once heard, they can never be truly forgotten. The pen is mightier than the sword; the sword may injure and even kill, but words live on. The ancient heroes performed deeds of greatness so that their stories would be told forever through the storytellers and the people of their culture. While their body was burned to ash on a pyre, their story, and hence their name, lived forever.

He never thought much about the power of words when he was a boy in school. He had to have been a boy once, and he had to have gone to school once before. The smell of chalk dust that lingers in the training rooms stirs something. Maybe he copied lines down; maybe he drilled spelling words. He can hold a pen or pencil and write what they tell him to. He can read and comprehend what he's reading. It's all there in his mind even if the context is long gone, like the ashes of heroes on their blackened pyres.

And there are words, words with the power to make him someone else. _Something_ else. He wakes up to the words, the spell that winds around his mind and gives them power over him to make him do whatever they want him to. He can't _not_ hear the words and he can't stop them from speaking them. He begs. He screams as the spell winds into his mind like a foul mist. The words take hold of him. He becomes the words.

The words turn him into a puppet with invisible strings. He does as he's told. No questions asked, except when he does have questions to ask, and then there is punishment and pain. He swallows his own words. He tries to compartmentalize. He tries not to think about what he does. He tries not to speak; if he does find his voice, the words will never stop: a flood of memories and words and confessions that never end.

But then come the last two words: two words, one phrase, that signal the spell is breaking.

Mission report.

When the spell breaks it may be merciful, but it may also be terrible. He never wants to report, but he always has to. The words flow on command and the sound of his own voice is always alien to his ears. His own words have little meaning: a summary of facts, nothing more. But it still has power. Speaking of the terrible things he's done makes them real. The words are out there now and can't be taken back. Mission report forces him to relive what he's done. Mission report forces him to face the reality of what he is. Mission report means the spell was successful.

Mission report means he can't take it back or pretend it never happened.

Mission report makes it real, and now he has to live with that reality.

No one else cares though. So long as he can fall under their spell they will keep casting it.


	27. Purgatory

_Purgatory_

I don't know if I was ever religious. I went to church. I can remember that. It was drafty. I would remember the cold. I don't remember much that's warm. Summer days at a ballpark maybe? In the winter the cold would seep in through the stone floors and walls. Sunny Sundays, the stained glass windows would be illuminated, and all the Bible story scenes would be more vivid and vibrant. Sometimes the priest would conduct the sermon in Latin and I think Steve and I would try not to laugh. We didn't understand what he was saying. It's not a big deal; I couldn't remember the masses he preached in English even before now. At least I think.

I do remember heaven and hell. I used to think hell was this place underground. Hell was hot and horrible and permanent. Hell was fire and brimstone and fear and anguish and weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Hell may be that to some people, but I know now that I've been to hell. I've lived seven decades in hell. Hell is no control over myself. Hell is seeing betrayal in someone's eyes as I killed them. Hell is the metal chair and the mouthguard and the clamps around my head and the scrambling in my brain. Hell isn't the beatings and the cryo and the abuse. Hell is being unmade and remade into their image to do the things I would never do. I would take the fire and brimstone over what Hydra did to me. It'd piss off Father Riordan to hear it, but I'd rather brave the fiery pits for all eternity than that fucking chair just one more time.

But there was also purgatory. It was supposed to give us hope that not all was lost. I think cryo was my purgatory. Long, cold, dreamless breaks from the short, hellish bursts of activity. I was never out of cryo long. Eventually I started wishing for it. Sometimes I still do. How much easier to just go to sleep… to be in the dark and the breathtaking cold, than to live with the demons?

Purgatory: that in between space. Not bad enough for hell, but definitely nowhere near good enough for heaven. Not really sure where you're going. I thought about purgatory once before: I was on a boat. A ship, troop transport. We were on the water for two weeks. And in that time, we weren't really anything. Our uniforms said we were soldiers, but we weren't fighting anyone. We weren't doing drills or scouting missions. We were just there. There was talk about enemy waters, but how do you draw a line through the ocean? We weren't in America. We weren't in Europe. We were just there.

I'm back in purgatory. Though I'm not sure all the Hail Marys in the world can get me into heaven at this point. But I'm in between again. Between the Soldier and Bucky. Between America and Europe. On a ship where no one knows me and no one cares, so long as I have semblance of documentation, can speak Russian, and can do the heavy lifting. No one asks who I am or where I'm from. Sometimes I wonder if we're all just shades, ghosting back and forth across the decks and between the containers. We don't ask each other questions. Some people are trying to make a living. Some are just trying to live. I'm not sure what I'm doing. Running, I suppose? At the grand speed of 21 knots across the Atlantic?

It's never quite dark, but never really bright either. Didn't think to check the weather reports for Purgatory when I was leaving Baltimore. Sometimes I just stand on deck and stare out across the sea. I don't know which way is which. Everything looks the same out here: gray sky, green-gray water. Just this endless expanse. It's cold, too, but nothing I can't take. In fact it's almost comforting.

Once I had a place. Once I had an identity. Once I knew where I belonged. But now I'm literally adrift at sea, in some sort of purgatory of my own making. It should be scarier. I should know what I'm moving toward. I don't. But at least I know what I'm running away from, and know that each knot, each mile, gets me farther and farther from hell. It's something.


End file.
